


For the Birds

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-04
Updated: 2008-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's a critic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Birds

Crowley narrowed his eyes, then smiled. "Sort of cuckoo, is it?"  
  
"Cockatiel," Aziraphale corrected. "And you can save the joke."  
  
"What?"  
  
"It isn't funny, Crowley."  
  
"Absolutely not," said Crowley. With all the satisfaction of someone who won an argument before said argument had even contemplated a brisk sashay across the Doppler radar, Crowley pushed away from the table, stood, and crossed to the opposite corner of Aziraphale's shop. When viewed by a casual observer, this movement would appear sober and resolute. To Aziraphale, it looked overwrought.  
  
"Don't sneak up," he warned. "The poor dear's highly excitable."  
  
"Learned that from her owner. Eh?" Crowley tapped on the cage: one, two, three times quite gently, and then four and five with greater force. The cockatiel swung round on her perch and stared out at him in glassy anticipation. "What've you been feeding her?"  
  
"Er."  
  
"Not chocolate digestives, I hope."  
  
"Chocolate? Don't be silly. Everyone knows chocolate's bad for animals," said Aziraphale, a trifle pettishly, and got up to join him, "and it's not as though I've had her for more than half a day."  
  
"Where'd she come from?"  
  
"I told you: one moment I was—"  
  
"—having a bit of quality time with a certain Master Hawthorne. Yes, I know."  
  
"But then there was a knock at the door, and no sooner than you can say 'sticky wicket,' this—" Aziraphale gestured to take in not only the bird, but also its high-domed deco habitat, and the grossly outdated edition of _News of the World_ which lay scattered across the bottom "—was on the stoop."  
  
"A gift."  
  
"Maybe," said Aziraphale. "Or perhaps a mistake."  
  
"Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?"  
  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."  
  
"Oh, come on," said Crowley, glancing over the top of his sunglasses.  
  
"Really. It isn't odd."  
  
"Odd enough to drag me away from my standard Sunday morning occupation?"  
  
Aziraphale arched a brow. "Reading the cornflake box?"  
  
"Don't be disgusting," Crowley grumbled. And then: "So a mangy animal shows up on your doorstep, and you just bring it inside, no questions asked?"  
  
"She's not as mangy as all that. Yes, her wings're a bit rough around the tips, if you _must_ press the issue."  
  
Crowley's smile widened. The cockatiel twittered.  
  
"But that's nothing a little time and attention can't remedy," Aziraphale continued. With exaggerated care, he unlatched the thin wire door and reached inside. Slowly, slowly, he stroked the bird's khaki plumage, and then allowed her to hop onto his outstretched finger. After a moment, he said, "Quite beautiful. And gentle. Why, I don't think it untoward to say I've not known a friendlier specimen. See?"   
  
"I see blood," said Crowley, matter-of-factly.  
  
He wasn't the only one. The cockatiel's talons dug a line of neat notches in Aziraphale's finger, leaving bruised flesh and tiny – but growing – dots of blood in their wake.  
  
"Ah!" Aziraphale gasped and wrenched his hand from the cage. "Of all the—"  
  
"Watch it," Crowley cut in. He grabbed Aziraphale's collar and swung him back from the cage as the bird blazed out, feathers flaring. A moment passed as they watched it flutter up and down before the stacks, and then Crowley shook himself and let his hand drop from the angel's shoulder.  
  
Aziraphale sucked on his wounded finger, and inspecting it, muttered, "The absolute nerve."  
  
"She's just spooked," said Crowley. "And no wonder: paisley drapes went out decades ago. I mean, come on. Mauve frogging?"  
  
"It was eggplant when I bought them."  
  
"Funny, I'd have thought plum."  
  
Aziraphale blinked. And then: "I want that creature out of here."  
  
This earned him a short laugh. "Whose idea was it to bring her in to begin with?" Crowley asked incredulously. "Or perhaps you actually enjoy emotional whiplash."  
  
"I couldn't just leave her to the elements. You _know_ that."  
  
"And getting rid of her isn't leaving her to the elements how, exactly?"  
  
"But surely there's the zoo, or I don't know, an orphanage..."  
  
"No need to shoot so low," Crowley said, and folded his arms over his chest. "Why not think of all the poor scientific research students in the area. Beggars can't be choosers."  
  
Aziraphale sighed. The flesh on his finger shimmered as it healed; he shook it disdainfully and then pushed his hands into his pockets. "Of course," he said, "I've a moral obligation."  
  
"Of course," Crowley sniffed.  
  
" _But_ she'd have to stay in the _back_."  
  
With that, the bird settled to the very front shelf and proceeded to gawk out the window at a gaggle of interesting passersby. The sun was shining, and cast an effervescent gleam on the oil-slick tarmac. The wind blew merrily. If there were flowers, they would have bloomed with everything they were worth.  
  
At least for a little while.  
  
"Could be a lost soul," said Crowley.  
  
Aziraphale turned round to gape at him.  
  
"Aztec mythology," Crowley clarified.  
  
"Aztec mythology states that a lost soul will take the guise of a beast, pop by with the subtlety of an inebriated brush salesman, and assault an innocent shopkeeper whenever the mood strikes?"  
  
"It might."  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"Perhaps you should get that cut checked out. Could be, you know, infected."  
  
"It's fine. Goodness knows, I've had worse." The angel held up a pudgy – if thoroughly unblemished – palm. "Not even _Bon Appétit_ comes without a share of nibbles."  
  
"And are you keeping the bird?"  
  
"No," Aziraphale said. Then, with a little less almighty oomph, "D'you suppose I ought to?" And finally, "Don't look at me like that. I've half a mind to toss you both out, but fat lot of good that'd do me. There's a box of Minstrels on the counter, and I can't be expected to get through them by myself."  
  
The cockatiel chortled appreciatively and relieved herself on a gilt spine.  
  
"So much for your Dickens," said Crowley.  
  
" _Poetical Works_ of Leigh Hunt, actually. Two owners from new."  
  
"First edition?"  
  
"Byron's own copy," Aziraphale agreed wearily. And then, catching Crowley's surprise, "His Lordship was always in want of coasters."  
  
"Everyone's a critic."


End file.
